No Choice At All

"You came alone." Sherlock observed. Mycroft's suit was immaculate, not even temporarily creased in the back and knees, suggesting a car journey.

"Of course." Mycroft replied, steely grey eyes betraying both determination and concern. Whatever Sherlock wanted, he could be reasonably certain he could and would, oblige, but he was undeniably anxious as to what the younger man had gotten himself into. For Sherlock to ask him for help, was near to unheard of.

"Your message rather worried me, as well you knew it would." He added, never one to bother denying irritation.

"I had no choice about that." Sherlock replied, stepping out of the shadows and facing his brother. Mycroft had stood in the middle of the room, assuming a stance of approachableness he evidently hoped would encourage Sherlock not to change his mind about asking him to meet him there. He hadn't even brought his umbrella.

Mycroft took in Sherlock's appearance and raised an eyebrow. "I…see." He spoke quietly. Sherlock looked momentarily alarmed, confirming Mycroft's deductions.

"How?" Sherlock demanded, eyes narrowing. He had been careful to give away nothing beyond the obvious, he was certain even Mycroft was not that clever.

"Most is obvious, you're aware you're giving away your fatigue, concern and the fact you've recently had to make a decision you didn't want to make." Mycroft replied, offering his statement as close to a question, to give Sherlock a chance to agree, that much was obvious.

"Generally looking tired, wearing yesterday's clothes is a sign of distraction, not something I'd do even if bored, frustrated or busy so I must be worried about something…" He glanced down at his shoes and smiled. "Slight scuff on one side of my left shoe, indicating I was pacing, but not paying attention. I only pace when trying to work something out and if it was for a case, I would not have been so absentminded as to walk into the fire place."

Mycroft gave a rather dark smile. "Excellent, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smirk disappeared instantly, as he remembered Mycroft knew far more than that.
"But the rest?"

"There is only one scuff mark and no sign of any other abrasions. If you'd really been trying to think you'd have played your violin and the indent in your right thumb would be more pronounced, so while the decision was not one you wanted to make, it was also no real contest, it took you less than a minute to make it."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"You walked into your flat, you looked around to check you were alone. You went into the kitchen and finding Mrs Hudson there, pretended to be putting the kettle on. You returned from the kitchen having only held your hand over the kettle for a moment. You brushed your cuff in the steam, it's stained slightly yellow. You left the kitchen and looked out of your living room window, guesswork but you would have just left your informant and wanted to check they were gone. You then walked up and down in front of the fireplace, maybe twice, before you sent me the text that brought me here. Estimated time taken, under sixty seconds."

Mycroft smiled again when he'd finished. "But those are not general deductions, I couldn't have made them about anybody else." He admitted, with a shrug.

Sherlock nodded impassively. "That doesn't explain how you know why I'm here."

"No." Mycroft agreed. "But it's not so difficult a leap, is it? You asked me to meet you here, so you need something from me. You're worried, so your flatmate is almost certainly in danger. A decision made that quickly could only mean you had to choose to protect him or someone else and that it really wasn't too difficult a decision. Your many enemies, aren't to know that. If I was threatening you, I'd consider either John or myself to be obvious targets."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock offered, voice cold and indifferent, eyes not wavering from his brother's.

Mycroft nodded. "Don't be. It was the more sensible option of the two, whether or not that in any sense influenced your decision."

"You're not going to do anything?" Sherlock asked, curious. He had suspected, when Mycroft realised what he was there for, he would submit without complaint. He had assumed though, that he would at least make some token gesture towards controlling what Sherlock was about to do.

Mycroft considered him quietly for a moment.

"Do you have a plan, beyond the obvious, Sherlock?" He questioned, at length. "I'm not planning to impede you in any sense, no, but this will need to be convincing and no sign of self defence, will not be."

"I had thought of that." Sherlock snapped, annoyed his brother would think him so incompetent. Mycroft gave a rueful smile and Sherlock felt a remote shiver of discomfort. Sparing Sherlock's feelings was, after all, not likely to be high on Mycroft's list of considerations.
"I reported my phone missing to Lestrade earlier."

Mycroft's eyes lit up. "Ah." He sighed softly. "How ludicrously simple. Ingenious, Sherlock, I must congratulate you."

In anyone else, it would sound like an attempt to placate his little brother, or at the very least, make him feel guilty. In Mycroft's case though, Sherlock knew the elder Holmes would be only too aware of the futility of both. There was nothing Sherlock did, that was not fully calculated to be simply the most pragmatic option available to him. Beyond that, he knew himself, there was beautifully simple genius in his plan.

If Sherlock's phone had been stolen, then someone else had messaged Mycroft and lured him to the abandoned warehouse. Mycroft was a genius, everybody knew it, but as Sherlock's phone had remained in his own keeping and Mycroft knew when he was talking to his brother, there had been no reason to suspect, but every reason for it to look like he'd been fooled. The plan relied entirely, but only, on Mycroft showing up at the warehouse, which he had done.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied, with sincerity. He knew after all, such compliments were high praise, from him.

Mycroft didn't move, as Sherlock closed the gap between them. He drew level with Mycroft and turned his head to the side, thinking. Mycroft returned his gaze, but stayed otherwise still. He did see Sherlock's hand make the minute movement required to shake a hidden object from his coat sleeve, into his grasp. He even surmised, in the split second he had before the needle plunged into his leg, what it was, but chose not to attempt to move.

This part of the plan had taken him by surprise, he supposed it was fair to admit, even if it's successful execution had been somewhat with his cooperation. He closed his eyes against the instant and overpowering exhaustion that pervaded his body. Unlike Sherlock, he did not have five years of addiction to have built up any kind of resistance. Sherlock's hand pressing down on his shoulder, decreased the time it took his muscles to give way and Mycroft to fall to his knees.

Determined, though he was, not to offer Sherlock any more obstacles than he had already been forced to navigate, Mycroft found it was physically impossible not to react to the realisation he could no longer control either his limbs or his vocal chords. Against his will, he clutched at Sherlock's sleeve, trying to speak, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to say. He needn't have worried. His hand brushed clumsily over the detective's arm, unable to retain his grip, while he made an incoherent groaning noise and nothing more. How thoroughly undignified, he thought.

"I'll take your congratulations as implied, on this part." Sherlock told him, removing his clawing arm with a perfunctory swipe and letting him collapse the rest of the way to the floor. "Because you would have fought back and in all probability you'd have won, had you wanted to. But even you, the even greater Holmes, thinking you were meeting me, could have been caught unawares this way."

Mycroft couldn't prevent the shudder that rippled through him. He blamed the merciless, cold concrete underneath him, rather than think Sherlock capable of causing such a reaction.

Sherlock remained crouched next to him for a moment, watching until he'd succumbed entirely, lying still, eyes open and awake, but utterly unable to move. He leant down and spoke in Mycroft's ear, evidently aware it was hard to hear anything over the increasing fog in his brain.
"I know this particular drug is extremely effective. This way I don't have to cause a head injury to make it convincing. …It's also…easier for you, in the long run."

With that, as though it in some way constituted reassurance or justification, Sherlock stood up and with barely a moment's hesitation, booted his brother in stomach with brutal force.

It didn't take long. Sherlock had seen and been involved in enough fights to know how to cause efficient damage, but equally, the difference between visibly unpleasant injuries and more life threatening ones. When he was finished, Mycroft's nose, lip and ears were bleeding, one of his cheeks rapidly swelling, several of his ribs broken and his arms and stomach badly bruised. Mycroft was still barely stirring, when Sherlock knelt beside him once more.

...

...

He remembered the sound of cautious footsteps, followed by running feet. He was confused that it was a familiar voice that tried to break through the drug induced fog and drag him back to the waking world.

It was hard to tell how long Sherlock had been gone. He'd been taken by surprise, most unpleasantly, by just how frightening the physical effects of the drug had been. He'd made no move to stop his brother and he had no doubt he was right, that it had made the minutes to follow, much easier to take. It had of course, also given him no choice about taking it. The mental effects though, were considerably worse.

Sherlock didn't have superiors, while Mycroft did, technically, if not intellectually. Sherlock did not react well, to not being in control of those around him or his own decisions, whereas Mycroft was used to having mentally inferior suits control his decisions and ignore his advice. He had never, even once, surrendered control of his mind. He didn't even drink much, for fear it would damage his formidable brain. Sherlock had done so willingly and habitually, for five years of his life. Mycroft had never experienced anything quite so vile.

He was trying to concentrate on keeping track of the injuries Sherlock caused, which were, as expected, superficial but ugly or debilitating. Instead of allowing this cataloguing process to take place, along with his intent to remove any traces of evidence Sherlock had overlooked, his mind refused to stop slipping into utter chaos, like a prolonged scream only he could hear. It was pointless and damaging and yet, seemed to be all he was capable of, after a few seconds of Sherlock's necessary attack.

It didn't remove his awareness entirely, it just made what he wanted to be concentrating on, peripheral to what his abused mind felt he ought to know, like internal screaming at his lack of control. He was still conscious enough to be aware of Sherlock kneeling beside him, lifting his left arm and intertwining their fingers.

Somewhere in the repressed, still functioning part of his brain, he knew it was not a good sign. The much louder, more controlling part, didn't care what kind of a sign it was. The incapacitating drug in his system numbed his body, but it didn't stop him feeling the pain Sherlock inflicted, it just made him feel strangely removed from it, as though his body belonged to someone else. The worse the pain, the closer to his consciousness it seemed to reach. An almost coherent sentence passed through his mind, when he felt his ribs cracking under Sherlock's foot. Christ on a bike, surely that's far enough…

He stared at he and his brother's hands, bleary eyed and half blind with blood. It didn't really matter that Sherlock Holmes had never offered simple human comfort to anyone, or that Mycroft Holmes had never wanted or needed such dull and pedestrian solace. It was a distraction from the dull throbbing in his ribcage, the strange burning sensation in his chest and the mental din holding court in his mind.

He thought he saw Sherlock's eyes widen a fraction, as Mycroft used all the minimal remainder of his energy, squeezing the hand in his. Sherlock said something, but all Mycroft made out was something about a warning and 'convincing'. He rolled his head back, not wanting to listen, noise amplified and distorting unpleasantly in his head. He wasn't watching, as Sherlock made a sudden and viscious twisting movement, causing a series of cracking noises like gunshots to explode in his eardrums.

His hand dropped to his side, frissons of electricity shooting through his fingers. His back arched against the pain and Mycroft screamed. He felt something warm clamp over his mouth and cut off his agonised cry, leaving him writhing in pain, still frantic, but muted. The internal screaming grew louder and darkness began to obscure the edges of his vision. When the torturing noise reached it's crescendo, darkness closed in and Mycroft felt himself sinking.

...

...

As far as he could make out, as the chaos started to recede, he had been joined by three, possibly four people. The authoritative sound of their voices suggested they were likely to be police.

"Come on, Mycroft, wake up…" One of the noises buzzing somewhere above him, formed into something he vaguely understood. The note of impatience, told Mycroft he'd been unintentionally ignoring his new company for some time. A strange rumbling in his chest turned out to be him starting to laugh, without his consent, at the idea he felt he'd been un-diplomatic, in being too unconscious to acknowledge the familiar voice trying to rouse him.

"Easy…" He soothed as Mycroft opened his eyes and found a blurry outline of a man leaning over him.
"There's an ambulance on the way, Mr Holmes, you're going to be fine."

Mycroft snorted. Now he was awake again, his companion had gone all formal. Mycroft couldn't quite hold back a groan as he continued to try to comfort him.
"I've called your brother, is there anyone else you want me to contact?"

"No…" He tried not to whimper, hoping at the very least, Sherlock had prepared for having to fake surprise and a believable level of total disinterest in the news. He remembered Sherlock telling him years before, in that delightedly victorious way of his, that what the law had gained, the stage had lost in him. Mycroft, while wondering who on his staff, Sherlock had convinced of what, had to agree. He was a brilliant actor, he supposed the news of his own assault on his brother, wouldn't have been too difficult a reaction for him.

"Mr Holmes…Mycroft? Can you hear me?…"

He could, but there was very little he could do about it. Though the fog on his brain had begun to recede, allowing him to think, if not entirely clearly, exhaustion stole over him. He heard the other man continue to try to keep him awake, but as the first, numbing effects of the drug began to disappear, so too did any relief from the pain in his ribs, head and hand, or his struggle to breathe. He gave in to the rising darkness willingly, confident that when he woke, his people would have stepped in and he'd be safely at home, where no one would ask any awkward questions.